


Got Wasted Like All My Potential

by yeetus_yeetus



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (at one point), 1960s, Bullying, Caryn Pines Isn't That Great Either, Character Study, Child Abuse, Depression, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Constipation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode: s02e12 A Tale of Two Stans, Filbrick Pines Is A Jerk, Filbrick Pines' Bad Parenting, Financial Issues, Ford Pines Has Issues, Ford Pines Needs a Hug, Ford Pines Thinks 2 Hours Of Sleep Per Night Is Enough, Gen, High School, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Introspection, Lack of Communication, Middle School, School, Sleep Deprivation, Spoiler Alert: It Isn't, Stan Pines Is Trying His Best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28861467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeetus_yeetus/pseuds/yeetus_yeetus
Summary: “I can’t believe we’re almost adults,” said Ford, certain he was feeling an emotion about that fact, but too tired to discern exactly which emotion. He hoped Stan would be able to figure it out from his tone.Ford had to go far in life; too many people were betting on it. Too many people would have yet another reason to resent him if he didn’t.
Relationships: Filbrick Pines & Ford Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	Got Wasted Like All My Potential

**Author's Note:**

> or, "in which a young stanford pines discovers that in the absence of sleep, spite and guilt are also fairly effective, if depressing, sources of energy."
> 
> also: ford isn't explicitly autistic in this, since i'm not sure if that was a known diagnosis in the 60s/70s, but i do interpret him as being autistic and he is meant to be read as such in this fic, i'm just not sure how good a job i did of implying it lmao
> 
> also also: title is from 'this is me trying' by taylor swift, which is generally a big ford mood tbh

1958

Even for a six-year-old, Stanford Pines was inattentive. Or, at least, that was what the grown-ups said about him, amongst other things. They thought he didn’t know what “inattentive” meant--or, for that matter, “antisocial” or “eccentric.” He wasn’t sure what the point was of being more attentive if everyone else was determined to be so boring; if one more teacher insisted on telling him, in that gratingly condescending kindergarten teacher voice, that a kid his age shouldn’t even be thinking about whatever topic he was asking about, he might just make like Stanley and start throwing punches. It wouldn’t be much use for a scrawny kid like him, but sometimes it’s the principle of the thing.

Ignoring the rest of the world and burying his nose in some book that was apparently supposed to be unreadable to anyone who wasn’t in high school yet was  _ not _ an absentminded tic on Ford’s part, thank you very much. It was an intentional, calculated move. It was hard to really hear the teacher's droning when his brain was already engaged in processing the words on the page, and he really didn't _want_ to hear the teacher's droning.

Unfortunately, some things just couldn’t be drowned out, and Ma and Pa’s shouting matches were one of them. Ford put down his copy of  _ the Fellowship of the Ring _ , sighing dramatically; it was impossible to properly process the words on the page with all the very loud, very shrill yelling going on.

“No the hell those are  _ not _ necessary,” roared Filbrick, slightly muffled by the floor between the living-room and the twins’ bedroom. “Back in my day, we actually played  outside , god dammit! No way are we raising our sons to sit around on their asses all day!”

“Look, one of ‘em was whining my ear off about not having anything to play with in the house! What do you want me to do, just put up with it? You try staying at home with these kids for a few days and see how you like it!” retorted Caryn.

“I don’t want my sons growing up spoiled! They need something to do indoors  _ so _ badly, then they can help more around the shop!”

“Oh, fuck off! I ain’t  _ spoiling _ anyone by buying one toy set! Get off my ass!”

“Those things cost  _ money _ , Caryn! We already spend so much on those damn kids!”

“Good thing we already had supper,” said Stanley, who was sitting on the floor acting out some vague Western-esque story with the new wooden train toy set Pa was currently lambasting Ma over.

“Yeah…”

“Hey, Ford?”

“Mhm?”

“Do you know how much these cost? Pa seems mad about it.”

“Three-fifty, I think. I don’t know if that’s expensive or not.”

“Eh,” shrugged Stan. “It’s nice to have something around to play with that isn’t boring.”

1960

Stan and Ford had used to wonder how Shermie didn’t know what his birthday gifts were until he opened them, considering that Ma and Pa fought over them almost every year the night before. Eventually, it had occurred to the twins that Shermie did in fact overhear, but acted surprised anyway out of courtesy to Ma for having the emotional stamina to keep buying presents every year despite the inevitable ensuing argument with Pa over how much they cost and how raising kids to expect presents for their birthday made them greedy and ungrateful. At least the whole routine only happened twice a year; the parents never got each other birthday gifts.

This birthday was  _ special _ , though. Shermie was turning eighteen, which, of course, was the age at which kids were supposed to go live on their own. Shermie had already packed all his things and completely cleared out his room by the time Ford and Stan got home from school.

The goodbye sequence was the most emotional Ford had ever seen his family. Pa actually smiled as he saw the eldest Pines brother out the door, clapping him on the back and saying some things about “being a man now.” Ma cried and said some things about how she could remember when Shermie was a baby and how she couldn’t believe he was all grown up. Shermie promised to bring the twins over to visit him at his new house some time soon. The feeling of seeing him off was surreal.

There was a degree of sadness involved, of course. Shermie had always been closer with Stan, but he hadn’t had a  _ bad _ relationship with Ford, and Ford was definitely going to miss him. But even so, everyone seemed to be in a good mood that day. Most noticeable was Pa, who was  _ never  _ in a good mood. Still, out of pure habit, the twins retreated to their room as soon as all the formalities were through with and Shermie’s car was out of the driveway.

“I wonder what’ll be different with him gone, y’know?” said Stan, staring out the window until the car disappeared around the corner.

“You won’t have anyone to wrestle with, for one,” snickered Ford. “Because I am not doing that.”

“Pff, chicken much? You just know you’ll lose!”

“Like you could really win against Shermie without him letting you!”

“What  _ matters _ is I could win against  _ you _ . ”

“No comment.” It was true, of course, but Ford wasn’t about to tell Stan that out loud.

1962

Ford supposed that it made logical sense for school supplies in higher-up grades to cost more than school supplies for a fifth-grader. Older kids got to study all sorts of crazy stuff that required more materials than paper and pencils. Crazy stuff that was  _ definitely _ more interesting than what apparently passed as ‘learning’ in the fifth grade. Fifth grade was stupid; the teacher would ask a bunch of questions Ford already knew the answers to, call him an annoying little know-it-all for raising his hand, call on some other kid at the back of the class who hadn’t raised his hand, and slap that kid with a ruler and call him a retard for not knowing the answers.

It had been Miss Hawkins who had suggested Ford move up a few grades.

“Look here, Pines. Your son has made it abundantly clear, and continues to make it abundantly clear every class, that he already knows pretty much everything on this year’s curriculum. I am at my wits’  _ end _ with him. Stanford clearly thinks he should be in a high school class, and I think putting him in one is a win-win situation; either he really is a genius and gets assignments at the right level, or he finally gets a wake-up call.”

“I’m sitting right here, ma’am,” muttered Ford, who had managed to keep his mouth shut for most of the meeting, but could only take so many passive-aggressive remarks from someone who already spent in his opinion far too much time making passive-aggressive remarks in class.

“Can you stop having an attitude with me for five minutes, please?” said Miss Hawkins, in that voice teachers always used when they were trying to act civil in front of a parent but really wanted to smack someone. “Frankly, Mr. Pines, putting up with this for another six months is going to drive me crazy.”

“You’re already crazy if you think I’m paying for high school supplies for a ten-year-old. If he asks about skipping grades again, tell him to suck it up or there’ll be consequences.”

“But Pa,” groaned Ford, “I already know  _ everything _ she’s teaching us! Why do I have to read stupid fifteen-page books and pretend there are three words I don’t know in them when I’ve already read  _ the Lord of the Rings _ ?”

“Good grief! We get it, you’re too smart for my class! Now be quiet while the grown-ups are talking!” cried the teacher.

“Look. I’ll pay for high school stuff when I  _ have _ to, and that’s final. You’re a teacher, it’s your  _ job _ to deal with brats all day. At least you’re getting paid for it.”

The car ride home was as tense as the meeting. For the first minute and a half, it was completely silent, which Ford almost found worse than being lectured, because complete silence meant his brain was going to try and fill that silence by mentally going over every possible way it could be broken, almost always giving special attention to the worst-case scenarios. Brains were really good, it seemed, at riling themselves up for no good reason.

“Look,” said Pa, in a voice that wasn’t quite snappy enough to foretell an outright shouting match. “I’m not made of money, you know.”

“I know,” sighed Ford, halfway relieved that he was only in for a lecture and not a fight, halfway annoyed because lectures were still irritating and he had really hoped skipping grades might have solved his myriad of school problems. “I didn’t mean--”

“Just getting groceries and putting clothes on you kids’ backs runs us about three-thousand dollars a year, and we’re always buying new clothes, ‘cause you keep growing out of ‘em, and…”

He went on, listing expenses. How much per year it cost to run the shop. Electricity and water bills. Gas. Numbers Ford found hard to imagine in terms of money; he felt rich if he had a dollar on him, and Pa was talking in the  _ thousands _ of dollars. What was he supposed to say to figures like that? Did he and Stan really cost that much just to feed and clothe? For once, Ford fell silent from something other than boredom.

1965

Going into the seventh grade, Ford was well aware that teachers and students alike were going to--very loudly, most likely--resent it if he raised his hand for every question. The difference, going into the seventh grade, was that he didn’t care. It wasn’t like the other kids had ever gone easy on him for keeping his mouth shut in elementary school, and it didn’t escape his notice that they were just as rude to Stanley, who absolutely could not be called a know-it-all; if they were going to be antagonistic either way, then there was really no point in pretending not to be the smartest kid in any given class.

And he  _ was _ the smartest. Adults danced around actually saying it to Ford’s face, always hiding anything resembling praise behind passive-aggression, always finding ways to make it sound like his intelligence was a behavioral issue, but unfortunately for them, Ford was also smart enough to know that behind all the accusations of showing off lay genuine, if extremely begrudging, acknowledgement that he had something to show off in the first place. More than once, now, he’d actually watched a teacher nitpick through the tiniest details of the assignments he handed in, trying to find  _ something _ to dock points for, some minute technicality that could possibly kind-of sort-of maybe be vaguely construed as incorrect by one definition or another. Ford had made a point of correcting that particular teacher out loud in class as often as he could, on the pettiest of details. Two could play the nitpicking game. He was trapped in the classroom by the law that stated children had to attend school, but the teacher was just as trapped, by his contract. Ford couldn’t stop teachers from getting on his case, but he could make sure they couldn’t have any fun doing it.

When the teachers were particularly bad, Ford would team up with Stan and make them deal with both Stan’s wisecracking and paper-airplane-chucking  _ and _ Ford’s smug comments about stupid technicalities. The worst thing the teachers could do was hit them or humiliate them, and their classmates did that anyway. Antagonizing the staff was a two-sided conflict. And, in a twisted way, it was fun.

(Sometimes, Ford wondered if it was entirely ethical of him and Stan to intentionally make the teachers so miserable. Then the teacher would slap Stan in the face or call Ford to the front of the class to make fun of him, and suddenly all the twins’ qualms miraculously vanished.)

It was fun, at least, until one English teacher actually succeeded in nitpicking Ford’s assignment down to a B grade. Something about using one word when another word, allegedly a synonym, would apparently have fit better. It  _ wouldn’t _ have fit better, Ford had complained, because it actually held wildly different connotations than the word he had used, and would have completely changed the meaning of his answer. The teacher just told him that they wouldn’t tolerate this sort of attitude in high school. Ford was so irritated with that non-rebuttal that it only occurred to him hours later to also be furious that one "incorrect" word was apparently worth docking 15 points over.  


Not that Ford was really the type to panic over a less-than-perfect grade. In fact, he’d never actually  _ gotten _ a less-than-perfect grade before, so he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react.

“How did  _ you _ get a B?” asked Stan, incredulous.

“Apparently the word ‘whispered’ and the word ‘mumbled’ are synonyms and me using one instead of the other was worth docking fifteen-percent of the assignment grade. Or, to put it more concisely, Mr. Russel doesn’t like me.”

“Well, an 85 is pretty much a 0 by your standards, so welcome to the bad grades club,” smirked Stan.

“Absolutely surreal,” laughed Ford. “What sort of parallel universe is this?”

“Next thing you know, I’m gonna get an A!”

If anything, it was funny. Until Stan made the mistake of bringing it up at the dinner table  that night. Ford was more than ready to laugh about it; getting one B in a situation where he _knew_ he should have gotten an A wasn’t much of a blow to his pride. But Pa, it seemed, was not ready to laugh about it.

“Is that true?” he asked, in the voice he only used when he was prefacing an oncoming shouting match with a brief pretense of civility to make the transition between moods less jarring. Something must have happened at work that day, then.

Stan shot Ford an alarmed, apologetic look. He sank down in his chair, looking very much like he wanted to melt into the floor.

“Well,” said Ford, hoping against all factual and logical evidence that the situation could be de-escalated if he just reacted calmly enough, “I don’t think it matters that much. It was just one assignment, and a B is still a passing grade.”

“A passing grade? What, is that as high as you’re gonna aim for, now? To pass?”

“I wasn’t  _ aiming _ for a B, Mr. Russel just--”

“I don’t wanna hear any excuses!” yelled Filbrick, bringing his fist down on the table. Ford jumped. He always did, no matter how many times these dinner-table fights happened.

“Pa, nobody can go all the way through grade school and  _ never _ get a single imperfect grade! It’s not possible.”

“If you wanna get into a decent high school, you’re gonna need better than Bs. I don’t bust my ass all day at work in the shop and pay for everything in this house so you can--”

“Getting a subpar grade doesn’t cost you money, Pa,” Ford spat, regretting it before he even finished the sentence.

Filbrick reached over and backhanded Ford before Ford even realized he’d raised his hand.

“Do  _ not _ interrupt me,” he roared. “You don’t get to act too good for school for seven years and then get Bs, do you understand me?”

Ford stared pointedly at a spot on the wall across the room, going over possible responses in his mind and trying to analyze which one was the least likely to make his father even angrier.

1966

Extra credit assignments and increasingly-late-night study sessions were very time-consuming. They didn’t leave much time for a social life, but Ford didn’t have one of those anyway; the closest he’d ever gotten was when a few classmates in gym had invited him into their group, acted oddly friendly for the duration of that class, then spent the next period laughing about everything he’d said and wondering how he had actually thought they wanted to be friends with him. He'd seriously contemplated fighting them, but the rational part of his brain had reminded him that the odds of him being able to beat up four people weren’t exactly high.

He told himself staying up until the early hours of the morning going over everything from every class that day was good. Managed to convince himself it was keeping his grades up. It was hard, at first, since he still had to wake up at six-fifty every morning whether he fell asleep before midnight or at four, but as with all the other constant inconveniences of life, Ford found he got used to it after a while. When it got annoying, he reminded himself that there wasn’t much of a choice; the extra credit assignments gave him an excuse not to socialize, and there was no way Ford was about to stop studying regularly for something as asinine as sleep. He wasn’t  _ lazy _ .

(Not that Ford believed that people who slept regularly were lazy; it was just normal, wasn’t it? But  _ he _ couldn’t forego productivity for sleep. He was too smart, and that meant that he had to be as productive as possible; had to live up to his potential. He wanted to believe the people who said that were wrong, but he hadn’t been able to do anything  _ un _ productive without feeling guilty in months. When fun stopped being fun, the next best thing was work.)

It was a constant inconvenience, to be certain, but it was bearable. Until Ford made the mistake of griping about it out loud.

“I wish somebody would hurry up and invent a teleportation device so I could sleep in on school days and still make it to class on time,” he said. “Six-fifty feels so normal until you start going to bed at four!”

“Try not to die of exhaustion, Sixer,” said Stan.

“That can’t be a real thing that actually happens.”

“Not sleeping messes with your brain! Some guy stayed awake for eleven days, and he had, like, hallucinations and stuff.”

“Well, I don’t think I  _ could _ stay awake _that_ long,” laughed Ford. “I’m too tired!”

“You know,” said Filbrick, whom the twins had thought to be in his room, “back in my day, kids your age would get jobs, and actually work to support their families,  _ and _ go to school.  _ You _ ain’t tired, Stan.”

And the mood was killed. Stan and Ford exchanged a look of half-anxiousness, half-irritation.

“Lay off, pops,” said Stan. “He didn’t mean anything, just that nobody likes waking up early.”

“Better get used to it, then,” snapped Filbrick. “That’s life. You kids don’t even work, and you wanna talk about being tired?”

“I’m...going to go study,” said Ford, and made for the stairway as fast as he could without running.

Stan, however, was thoroughly incensed by his father’s remarks, and continued arguing. The arguing escalated to shouting within about a minute.

Stan came up to bed at about eleven-thirty, sporting a red mark on his cheek.

“Stanley…”

“Don’t worry about it, Ford. I’m fine. Are you okay?”

“I’m--” Ford cursed his voice internally for shaking. “I want to get out and look for a job, but…”

“A  _ job _ ?”

“But I don’t have  _ time _ to look for a job, let alone actually work! I don’t know what Pa wants me--wants either of us--to  _ do _ ! The kinds of places that’ll hire someone our age are all part-time, minimum wage, and none of ‘em could possibly work with my current schedule--”

“We’re fourteen, Sixer! We don’t need jobs! Pa’s just full of it.”

1968

Ford didn’t resent  _ Stan _ . Not at all. But Stan was always protecting him, and though that had felt like a blessing once, Ford resented it nowadays. The strictly rational side of his brain argued that it made logical sense; Stan had gotten much larger, stronger, and more intimidating with puberty, and Ford had most certainly not. Of course other kids at school were going to be more reluctant to pick on the big, buff guy who was over six feet tall and had a history of getting into fights. So, of  _ course _ Stan was going to end up protecting Ford more often than the other way around. Besides, technically the teachers should be in charge of dealing with bullying, so it was really their fault for refusing to intervene (something about high school age being "too old to need the grown-ups to solve all your problems for you"). And Stan insisted that he didn’t resent having Ford’s back. But none of that stopped Ford from wanting to drop dead on the spot whenever Stan got between him and some jerk.

In elementary school, he’d been confused as to why nobody besides Stan seemed to like him. In middle school, he’d worn that dislike proudly, found some joy in weaponizing it against people  _ he _ didn’t like. But now he was sixteen and nearly done his first year of high school, and other kids in his classes were getting jobs and saving up for college, and here he still was, unemployed, exhausted, always in trouble with some teacher or another and still relying on Pa to pay for his life and Stan to keep the other kids from pulverizing him. His consistently impeccable grades, which had once been a source of pride and comfort, had become another source of resentment; how, in the name of all things logical and coherent in this world, could someone capable of still getting hundreds in high school end up failing so dismally at every part of life that  _ mattered _ ? What  _ use _ was being “smart” if he still couldn’t get a job or interact with other people?

By now, Ford had long stopped deluding himself that staying up all night studying was keeping his grades up. He knew he could quit studying altogether, spend all day doodling aimlessly and all night writing  _ Star Trek _ fanfiction, and still ace every test. But if he didn’t stay up all night, if he didn’t put in  _ some _ kind of  _ work _ , then how else could he justify indignantly telling teachers he wasn’t lazy? How else could he argue when Pa accused him of just sitting around, costing money and not contributing anything? He couldn’t force anyone to give him a job, but he could make sure he didn’t have any fun being unemployed and useless at anything that wasn’t academic.

Ford definitely noticed as he and Stan started talking less, and he knew Stan noticed too, but both twins were too worn out to do anything about it.

(Maybe it’s better this way, Ford thought; without having to worry about protecting him, maybe Stan would have the opportunity to get his life together.)

1969

Pa always hid it behind speeches about being independent and not needing mommy and daddy to hold your hand all the time and, of course, how much money it cost to have kids around; he’d never quite explicitly told Ford or Stan “you have to be out of my house right after you graduate,” but they both knew that was the expectation. Stan had had a couple shitty part-time retail jobs in the past year or so, but never lasted more than a month or two before getting fired (usually for fighting customers, or stealing). Ford had started applying for jobs, sleep schedule be damned, but he completely bombed every interview. Part of him blamed the interviewers; how was he _supposed_ to do well when they spoke in some weird business language where nothing was meant or taken at face value, where everything was secretly code for something else? The other part of him blamed himself; everyone else his age was able to decipher the code, so why couldn't he? Apparently “a lifelong grade average of 99%” and “an IQ of at least 185” just weren’t employable qualities in the scant few sectors of work available to high school kids.

University, Ford reassured himself, would be better. He could get a degree and find a job where the kinds of skills he had weren’t completely useless, and hopefully one that paid higher than minimum wage. He’d make a successful career for himself in experimental physics or ecology or really any number of fields of study, and finally reflect well on everyone who’d had to deal with him in his youth. Ford  _ had _ to go far in life; too many people were betting on it. Too many people would have yet another reason to resent him if he didn’t.

The bio teacher, bless his oddly well-intentioned heart for a high school staff member, thought something was off.

“You doing alright lately, Pines?”

“Uh…” Ford cursed himself internally; he’d been so well-spoken when he was younger, but lately, he’d been doing a lot of spacing out and saying  _ uh… _

“Hm?”

“Yeah, nothing. I mean, I’m fine. There’s...I’m just...I didn’t get much sleep last night, that’s all.”

“That seems to be a consistent pattern with you, lately. I don’t mean this in a judgemental way, but you look tired.”

“I just, uh...I study a lot. You know how it is. Exams and all that. Can’t slack off.”

“You ever think about going to see the counselor?”

The counselor used a tone of voice that reminded Ford of a kindergarten teacher. An unbearably affected tone of condescending pity that told Ford within the first three words he spoke that nothing he was saying was real, that he was probably reciting some script. He said some things about how “the real world” was so, so much harder than high school. He told Ford to get a job.

***

Every kid in the area was applying everywhere for a summer job, but somehow, Ford managed to land one. Pa insisted on taking whatever money he made. He promised he’d let Ford keep a couple dollars each paycheck as spending money, but Ford quickly learned that actually asking for those few dollars was a one-way ticket to lecture town, and he didn’t have the energy to deal with lectures. His boss gossiped about him all the time with his coworkers, and kept planning staff events with them in front of him with no intention of inviting him. Sometimes, usually between two and four in the morning, Ford could scrape together enough energy to feel hurt and angry about it, but mostly, he didn’t care. Having a job at some point looked good on a university application. There would be time for resentment when those asshole coworkers were reading about his scientific achievements in the news.

September rolled around and all the summer job kids were let go for the school year, and all the kids going into senior year seemed to be feeling all sorts of emotions about starting their last year of school.

“After this year, we’re finally ditching this dumbass town,” said Stan, with a goofy smile that might once have compelled Ford to smile as well. “And Crampelter ain’t here this year. It’s all smooth sailing from here.”

“I can’t believe we’re almost adults,” said Ford, certain he was feeling an emotion about that fact, but too tired to discern exactly which emotion. He hoped Stan would be able to figure it out from his tone.

***

This time around, it started when Ford made the mistake of asking for supplies for a project. He hadn’t had the energy for projects in what felt like forever, but the recent possibility of going to West Coast Tech if he could manage to impress admissions staff had suddenly made the whole idea of getting through high school seem very concrete and real, and for the first time in years, Ford felt  _ motivated _ . Somebody actually  _ wanted _ him to show off? And he could get a chance to solve every problem in his life by doing it? That was a kind of energizing that five cups of coffee just couldn’t replicate.

Unfortunately, science projects cost money. Ford rehearsed how he was going to ask for almost a full day before actually doing it. He tried his luck asking Ma first, but she, of course, said to go ask Pa.

For once, that didn’t dissuade him. At that meeting at school, the principal had said Ford was a genius, and Pa hadn’t uttered a word of sarcasm. He’d actually said he was  _ impressed _ with Ford, which was about as expected as the sun suddenly turning into a giant orange or something to that effect. He was  _ never _ impressed. Clearly, miracles could happen, so maybe it wasn’t a total crapshoot.

“You do understand,” he said (in  _ the _ voice, Ford realized, his elated mood turning to panic at damn near the speed of light), “that you’re pretty much an adult, now?”

“I...look, before you recite a list of costs I’ve managed to incur on you--”

“Oh, shut  _ up _ !” yelled Filbrick. “Every day, I work my ass off, just so I can spend

everything I  _ earn _ for working my ass off on two kids who won’t even get a job--”

“I tried! The only job that would hire me was seasonal!”

“You don’t even talk to your family, you just sit around--”

“Doing  _ schoolwork _ !”

“What do I get out of this, huh? What do I get for putting a roof over your heads, food on your plates, clothes on your back?”

“You…”

“Don’t give me that look, damn it! I don’t think I’m being unreasonable here! I just expect that when I put time, effort, and money into something, there’s gonna be something in it for me, so I’m not just flushing all my hard-earned money down the toilet!”

“Look--”

“Caryn,” Filbrick called out, as he often did, “am I being unreasonable here? Am I asking too much?”

“Don’t get me involved,” came Caryn’s voice from a few rooms over.

“I don’t know what you want me to  _ do _ !” yelled Ford, the energy he’d had earlier to be hopeful rerouting itself to rage. “I can’t get a job! I’m not gonna be profitable to  _ anyone _ until I get through university! This--this is a career opportunity too, you know! I don’t know what you want from me!”

“How about some fucking respect?” roared Filbrick, hurling the plate he’d been holding at the wall, shattering it into a million pieces he was probably going to yell at Stan to clean up later. “I sink too much into your little projects and I’m sick of you not contributing anything in return! Your brother’s a useless piece of shit, he’s gonna be hopping from job to job for the rest of his life, he’s not gonna be contributing anything to anyone anytime soon--”

“Stanley isn’t useless, he’s--”

“You know what that means? Shermie off in ‘Nam, Stanley an impending high school flunk-out, that leaves  _ you _ to get us out of this dump. You owe Caryn and I that much, Stanford! You  _ owe  _ us!”

Ford sighed.

“Look,” he said, “people that go to West Coast Tech don’t end up at minimum-wage jobs. If you want me to pay you back, well, this is my best shot at eventually getting the kind of job that makes that kind of money. But they’re not going to admit me just because I get good grades. Everybody who applies there has my grades, Pa. I have to  _ impress _ them. You’re going to need to make one more investment.”

In the end, Filbrick agreed to get Ford what he needed to test his concept for a perpetual motion machine. Ford wasn’t sure whether he felt good or guilty.

1970

He’d been growing apart from Stanley for a while, but they hadn’t had a  _ bad _ relationship lately, or, at least, Ford didn’t  _ think _ they did. However, exactly how much less open communication there had been lately between them hit Ford like a brick to the face when, after he’d told Stan about his plans to go to West Coast Tech, Stan had turned out to still be one-hundred percent earnestly serious about their old “sailing around the world” plan. It wasn’t that Ford had never been serious about it, but sailing around the world getting up to various antics with Stan wasn’t going to pay back their parents.

Even more jarring, however, was when Stan  _ sabotaged _ Ford’s application.

The fight that followed was the first real, honest-to-god  _ fight _ Ford had ever had with Stan. They’d argued before, of course, but this was different. This wasn’t brotherly bickering. Pa overheard the commotion and stormed into the room, and within minutes, Stan was evicted from the house. Ford wasn’t sure whether he hated Stan more, or himself. He trudged back upstairs to his room. Stan had been kicked out without any notice; the posters he had up on the wall were still up. Ford tore them down, buried his face in his pillow, and  _ screamed _ .

***

Holding it together in school had always been relatively easy for Ford, but apparently losing what had felt like his last chance to pacify his parents before the looming, steadily-approaching end of the school year, (and the incident with Stan, but Ford refused to acknowledge that, he was still  _ mad _ at Stan, damn it) was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He lasted less than two full periods before bursting into tears when the gym teacher asked where Stan was.

“He’s probably halfway across the state by now,” he said, forcing his voice to steady.

“Well, I hope his absence doesn’t affect your performance in my class,” said the teacher, without a hint of sympathy. Ford wanted to punch him.

***

In the month between that night and the end of the school year, Ford got exactly fifty-nine hours of sleep. He counted. He wasn’t sure if it was his way of distracting himself from life, or his way of punishing himself for finally managing to ruin the last two things he had going for him. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it was  _ hard _ .

Passing out or puking in class became a new consistent inconvenience very quickly. The response from the staff was usually something along the lines of an eye roll and a patronizing comment about how “this sort of behavior” wouldn’t be tolerated in university. The English teacher made some such comment one particular Monday when Ford had finally lost all pretense of stability and came to school almost blackout drunk. Ford punched him in the jaw.

***

Graduation day came and nobody, very much including Ford himself, was happy about Ford being the valedictorian. The teachers all resented it; nominally, they resented it because of his “highly inappropriate behavior” the past month or so, but Ford knew they hadn’t liked him any better when he’d tried being a good kid. The other graduates all resented it because of something to do with mob mentality. Their parents all resented it because every parent thinks  _ their _ kid should be valedictorian. Ford resented it because his complete apathy towards the whole school had managed to spiral into absolute loathing over the past month. His speech sounded awful. He stammered and slurred and lost his train of thought. He hadn’t slept in over one-hundred hours.

Finally dropping all pretense of civility, Filbrick ordered Ford to pack his things as soon as they got home. Ford had already packed his things, and put in an extremely last-minute application at some nowhere institution Backupsmore, the only university that was still taking people in without some bureaucratic vetting process. They were downright desperate for people, and the admissions people were absolutely elated at the prospect of getting someone with Ford’s academic track record in. A long time ago, Ford would have revelled in getting that kind of respect from anyone. Now, mostly, he was too busy resenting that he had to go  _ there _ of all places.

Nobody said a word from the moment they left the grad ceremony to the moment Ford left the house.

When the start of his first year rolled around, Ford swore to himself that if he managed to achieve anything in his life, no matter how much money he made, Filbrick Pines would never see a single penny of it. 


End file.
